Leo Panthera Leo
by Fruitiest of Mallards
Summary: OCs, filmcanon, semicanon, alternate endings, and just generally leonine happenings. This is Africa, not Kansas.
1. Horrible Timing

**_LEO PANTHERA _****_LEO._**

_disclaimer. / I do not own "the Lion King," nor do I make any profit off of these fanfictions._

* * *

Any of these installments can be adopted and expanded upon, more than once, by different people, so long as you message me first, give me a link to the fic, and give me due credit in said fic. Unless the oneshot is a gift for someone else, I'll usually say yes. If it is a gift, you'll have to ask the original person I made it for, too.

Thank you.

* * *

**_HORRIBLE _****_TIMING._**

* * *

_Inspired by fanart on deviantART drawn by =AnnaGiladi, titled, "The Great Kings." Credit for inspiration goes to her._

_It should be noted that what happens here is markedly different than the concept the artist had mind. It was the image itself which made me think._

* * *

_Is Simba up there? In the stars? He wasn't a king. Probably not …_

Nala only vaguely remembers the piece of lore her old, dead friend related to her the day after returning from their near-death experience at the elephant graveyard. She inhales, slowly, and deeply. Thoughts like that corner no game.

"It's so quiet," is the first thing Dotty can really muster up to say. Because it is quiet. It's a pressuring silence. If she didn't break it, she's sure she would've started choking. Dotty's mother _did_ say she'll show up and keep an eye on them so they'll be safe, and she … isn't here, yet. It's been three hours. There is four of them, Dotty herself, Zira, Nala and her little brother Mheetu. They are all too young to understand she isn't late. Well, Mheetu and Dotty are. She's not coming. She's busy trying to win the favor of some rogue lions wandering the outskirts of the territory, before Scar learns of their presence and sends hyenas to annihilate them. Sarabi and the other lionesses will be furious … especially when they realize Dotty's mother does not plan to stay in the Pridelands much longer. The hyena ranks are seemingly endless. Good luck with that.

Once their nervousness at being alone, at night, without an adult so far from the Rock wears off, Mheetu, in his naivete, attempts to make conversation.

"Why is Scar such a jerk?"

Nala's amendment of his blatant statement is hasty, "He isn't!" she glances to and fro for unwanted ears, and, well, she just can't tell if they're being overheard or not. Inwardly, she screams at herself, at her uselessness, at her lack of muscle and courage. She wishes to be somelioness else. "He's just … trying …"

She can't really come up with a good reason for Scar's general behavior. She thinks of a lie, quick, "He's trying to be a good king, and it's hard, so, sometimes he gets annoyed easily, because he's got so much stuff going on at once."

Mheetu blinks, suddenly comprehending, and Nala panics. She sees something in his eyes, which spells death, "But don't try to talk to him, again!"

Mheetu's confused, "I know he said not to … but I want him to know nobody hates him."

Zira's outburst shocks Nala. Nala almost forgot her friend was there in her desperation to make Mheetu understand.

"Everyone _does_ hate him! Everyone! Stupid! Can't you see that?!"

Nala opens her mouth to reprimand her – then she spots a dark, hidden figure in the foliage, and realizes, it isn't any _use_, anymore. They're going to die.


	2. Conflict of Succession

_**CONFLICT OF SUCCESSION.**_

* * *

_Written as a spontaneous gift for ~GreatMarta, on deviantART, whose version of the TLKverse inspired me._

* * *

Akina doesn't look her daughter in the eye, "Zira, honestly," they don't need her attitude right now, "I'm asking you politely."

"'Politely'?" Zira echoes, incredulous. "You're practically kicking me out!" _I wonder why,_ Akina thinks. It's not her intention to hurt Zira's feelings, but, well. It's obvious Zira will never approve of her father's choice in heir, and the way she's splitting up the Pride's loyalties is just unacceptable. Doesn't she care for all of their combined wellbeing? Zira was always a picky cub, needing to have everything this way or that way, and that … hasn't really changed. Akina is as patient a mother as she is on a normal basis, but there has been times it's gotten on her nerves.

She sometimes wonders where Zira even inherited it from. Her side of the family? She doubts it; Tau and she got along good enough, despite Tau's going … awry. She made a choice to leave her birthpride and follow Kwanza, and his seemingly randomly thrown together band of followers, and she has not yet regretted that choice. She feels horrible, starting to believe that she might, only now, after so long of no problems. The Bedouin Pride was looking fairly tempting to return to. Scratch that, she stops herself with contempt, she knows _exactly_ where Zira's selfishness springs from. It must be Akina, herself.

Kwanza is a moody lion, on occasion, and hasn't ever taken insubordination with particular calmness, "You'll be _quiet_, or I'll knock your head off," Akina winces at his temper, though she can't remember it being directed at her at any point. This is her family, she supposes. Razi, their poor, slightly meek son, stands mutely off to the side. He isn't good at confronting loved ones when there's an issue. Never has been. He is thoughtful, and understands the procedures of Kingship off the tip of his claws. Zira forgets where she buries the prey she catches regularly.

"As if!" Zira backtalks, and Kwanza is quickly losing it. Jasiri steps in-between them – Akina holds him in a pint of resentment, her only daughter listens to her boyfriend better than her own parents – and says he wants to spend the day alone with her, anyway, why not go? Zira is still fuming. Razi collapses in relief when they're gone. His blue eyes are wide. The central den of their Pride's leaders – _them_ – is too small to accommodate so many lions, it's like a breath of fresh air for them all.

"Geez," he mutters, "She doesn't like me, anymore, huh?" Akina bumps her shoulder with his sympathetically. "I mean, I do love her. She'll get over it, right?" Akina bites her lip.

Kwanza scoffs. "She won't. She's too much like me."

_Are you sure?_ Akina asks no one.


	3. She Believes

**_SHE _****_BELIEVES._**

* * *

_She'll be there, to guide and protect you_

_She will be there, to see it through_

_She'll lift you up, when you stumble and fall_

_She'll always be there, to heed your call_

_You've got to realize, how she'd sacrifice_

_Nine months of her life, to mother your child_

_(Remember)_

_She loves you_

_She really loves you_

_She believes in you_

_She truly loves you_

_In matrimony, you took her from her home_

_Said she'd never be lonely, in your happy home_

_Treat her like a Queen, she'll make you her King_

_She'll never desert you, if you truly love her_

_She loves you_

_She really loves you_

_She believes in you_

_She truly loves you_

_(When times are hard, you can find a way_

_He'll never forsake you, he'll show you the way_

_He'll give you love)_

_She really loves you_

_She believes in you_

_She truly loves you_

_(When times are hard, you can find a way_

_He'll never forsake you, he'll show you the way_

_He'll give you love)_

_She believes in you_

_She truly loves you_

**LEBO M.**

* * *

"It is time," says Queen-Mother Sarabi, regal as the sun at its peak, orange eyes alive much in the same manner. Her slight gauntness shows through her hollowed cheeks. The process of regaining weight, comfort and _heart_ after Scar's traumatic reign is slow, but so, so welcomed.

This is it, thinks Nala. This, is really – it. Simba's coronation was full of fanfare, of a literal rising dawn and cleansing rains. There'll be no such magnificence for Nala, but, it is not needed. She has her pridesisters' faith, trust and support beside her, like an inner blaze, a blaze others have noticed about her for as long as she can remember. Sarafina, Nala's mother, always bragged about it to her friends, endlessly, to the point where even wizened lionesses like Sarabi would begin to get a little tired. A twinge of hurt enters Nala's heart at the thought of her mother. Mad King Scar claimed many victims.

Though, it wasn't directly by Scar's claws that Sarafina died. No, Sarafina fell to one of Scar's most loyal, fanatic followers : Zira, a migrant from another, foreign Pride. A twisted form of, 'revenge,' against the lion Zira viewed, still views, as the _true_ murderer, the _true_ Usurper … Simba. The love of Nala's life.

The lion, whom, once this ceremony is completed, will be Nala's husband. Her mate. She will take her rightful – she hesitates to call it such! – place as Queen, next to him, dwelling within all the nobler trains of thought. She will be expected to make important, political decisions. Nala is a sharp girl, no longer a girl. The entirety of the Royal Pride is convinced she can handle it. The news of Sarafina's murder shook her to the core. Returning to Priderock, after such a dreadfully long period of desperate wandering, Nala'd become disconsolate. Would she see her mother, her younger brothers, Mheetu and Werevu, again? Hope came in the form of a Prince thought lost, but, it seemed, reuniting with Sarafina in time was just not to be.

Hatred for Zira, and the rest of her kind, for Scar had numerous lackeys, burns in Nala's heart, for a moment. Only a moment, before she banishes it. Sarafina wants her to be strong. She can feel it, in the flow'ry breezes which flow past her ears. _I'm doing this for you, Mom. For your boys. For Simba, for Sarabi, for all of us. Especially, for your Daughter._


	4. Whether you want him to or not, HLIY

_**Whether you want him to or not, he lives in you.**_

* * *

_*Rinjapine on deviantART created an alternate timeline where Scar takes in Simba to raise as his own evil heir, so this is yet another gift. I do a lot of those._

* * *

The sky is dark, clouds sparse, and winds billowy. Simba appreciates the gloominess. Despite the lack of food it blatantly indicates, it compliments his mood. He tries not to think of anything else. The heavy air starkly digs up sensory memory of the night his father – blood-father – died, saving Simba's own life in the process, and, truly, he is grateful for that. He just wishes lions and lionesses would cease _reminding_ him. Simba has paid his thanks in tears and grief, tenfold, and yet, despite the fact they know not whose fault Mufasa's death actually is, never will, they never stop pouring new salt in old wounds.

"What would your father think? Don't you ever stop and _think_? Do you not ever feel ashamed?"

No, no, and no.

"Sarabi! Sarabi, what about her?"

They grew apart. She murdered Miitu, and Tojo. The maddened crone _murdered_ innocent cubs. Does that simply not occur to them? Rallying behind a deceased cubkiller? He hates them, hates them oh so much. Here is Simba, son of Mufasa, yes, he supposes, and son of Scar, moreover... and he is the only sane lion in this forsaken pride, it seems. How Mufasa must frown down upon them all, if he hasn't given up, already. He sighs, for once, releasing every ounce of his burning heart into the chilly evening.

He does still believe he possesses a heart.

He doesn't believe it's what the others wish it to be. That's fine. It's his heart, in the end. He'll decide what to do with it, what to fill it with, and how to consult it. More often than not, he rather agrees with its whims. It longs for Tama, tonight.

He's been lounging since sundown. So, he stands.

* * *

Tama is less than complacent, "You are my _nephew_," she cries, mouth twisting in revulsion.

An eyeroll is called for, "We're hardly related. A cub would be... unfortunate. It is a chance I am willing to take." He fails to see the issue. It's not as if he is rough with his females. Quickly, had he realized it is easier when they are not writhing in agony beneath him. Far more enjoyable that way. A thousand times more. He is unprepared for the threatening step she makes toward him. He backs up, out of sheer surprise. She perceives it as cowardice, and smirks grimly.

He'd give her the pleasure?

Her canines are bared. In a blink, so are his. His, are larger. "You'd dare?" He's bestowing upon her the benefit of a doubt. He's not sure why. He is so, so tired, honestly, of the disobedience. The defiance. They refuse to listen to him, no matter the kindness he attempts to show at rare points, when he's too exasperated to fight any longer. The frustration's built across the years, he's near snapping. He has half a mind of proving his title of Cruel. Scar'd done his best. That spirit-crushing training Simba was subjected to in the past shan't go to waste, in the present.

She is accustomed to fearing him. She is soundless a moment, then, she inhales, and says, "I do, _my Liege_. I do dare. I won't stand here and take your brutishness. Any longer." Her words are fast and clipped, curt and falsely polite. Her reddish eyes flicker this way and that, keeping a steady gaze. Poor thing, she is trying. Whatever embers of pity rouse in his heart, the one the rest have forced him to methodically dull into stone, he effectively smothers. There is no room for her attitude, not in a pride rife with tension as is.

He lunges. She screams.

He is accomplishing what is necessary to achieve any semblance of peace.

* * *

Is it strange, he thinks, that his heart has never quit whispering for peace. Amidst the chaos and distrust, he guesses it is naught but the strangled remainders of his cubhood. Of better, simpler times, blissfully unaware of his mother's impending treachery. Above everything, he has no doubts that if Nala will just – give in to him, all will be fixed. He is disdainful of granting her power, but, she is Scar's daughter. She must have some of his wise abilities, his cunning and intelligence. She absolutely has his cutting eyes. It pains him, sometimes, seeing the harsh judgment of his surrogate father in the glare of the lioness he'll gladly wed. He swallows the dread, each instance it rises, akin to bile.

Tama's quieted. He wondered if she'd stop sniffling soon. He almost lost interest. Sobs are unattractive.

A flicker of self-consciousness – had anyone seen? Is there anyone watching?

He can swear – the sensation of stares on the back of his maned head were plain as stripped bones –

For no reason he can decipher, he glances at the sky above.

* * *

**FIN?**


	5. Let's Pull Together

**_LET'S PULL TOGETHER._**

* * *

_Another one for *Rinjapine. A possible son for her incarnations of Chaka and Timira ..._

* * *

Harambee swallows his mouthful of meat, as his mother harangues his father for the nth time that afternoon. His father behaved a little too rudely to their guests for her taste. Harambee thinks nothing of it – his father often requires the same hawklike eye Harambee himself does. That's why they never really go out much. Chaka, his father, is too unsocialized to bring out in public. It didn't always used to be that way. Chaka, once, was the most charismatic, persuasive character in all the Pridelands. Now, he is a shell of his former self. The sudden change baffles every lion and lioness they come across, but Harambee hardly notices. So what, his mother Timira breaks her back trying to give him a normal childhood amidst the confusion? So what, he's not truly learning to make friends properly? He does not need anyone but his parents for company. Nobody.

Except, that's not honest. His mother, despite her supreme patience otherwise, swats at his ears for dishonesty. Harambee's torn. Does he admit to weakness, or maintain a presentable front? Their guests were unimpressed by him, he could tell. They expected better of King Simba's grandson. Of King Simba's _son_. For, you see, Harambee is not a simple, faceless lion cub living with the boundaries of the Royal Pridelands. He is nobility, barely a candidate for the Throne, but related to the Royal Couple, nonetheless. King Simba and Queen Nala adore him, and the emerging peace his existence signifies. Life has not been easy as of late, and, perhaps, he'll grow to help create something new.

The Royal Pride is a large, well-fed community, with vast territory, and plentiful herds of prey animals. An Official Hunting Party, consisting of the land's best huntresses, is charged with ensuring the majority is fed, but the land contains so much wealth, lone individuals like to hunt out of _boredom_. Strict laws regulate these outings ; but that's alright, because what reason is there to disobey? Dry seasons arrive and depart, and Royal residents understand this quite well. There's little to no worry, in that area. Hakuna matata, as Simba tends to say, when he's not feeling glum.

Why ever should he feel unhappy? The Pridelands is a happy place. Tension is nil. Bloodshed is unheard of.

Nowadays.

There's no way Harambee can be aware of his Pride's long, detailed history within any measure. His elders fight to keep certain he stays blissfully ignorant, at least, til he is mature. This is just the past the average lion heard and witnessed. They don't know everything. A secret, a complex one, surrounds Harambee's birth. It's a secret only his parents can breathe, which they won't. He is a young boy. Maybe, if Chaka and Timira forget anything happened, it'll become as if nothing did. That is a feat simultaneously wonderful and cowardly to strive for, but it is not achievable.

His dam and sire have retreated outside the cave, in order to avoid disturbing their son with their gradually rising voices. Priderock, base of operations for the Royal Pride, is home to numerous empty, seldom-used dens, this small family of three occupies different caves depending on whoever is in greater need than they. It's an unwritten rule, a gesture of kindness. It's ancient, although it took the thoughtfulness of Prince and Heir Apparent, Kopa, to bring it back into everyday life.

Later, supper eaten, belly sated, and comfort zone reached, Harambee sleeps, dreams filled to the brim with the color white.

* * *

The bright light threatens to overflow. However, before Harambee can lose himself inside it, screams violently tear him into reality. Chaka is experiencing night terrors.

The pale lion twists and screeches, Timira forcefully holds him down. Harambee is dead silent. He'd hoped these were over with. He can do nothing but stare. Eventually, Chaka's hyperventilation is smoothed. Deeper motivation lies beneath their constant uprooting and moving some-cave else : Timira's compassion won't allow neighbors to suffer the same horrid sounds at midnight twice. Harambee follows wherever she goes. His father's mutterings disconcert him, heart falling to his stomach, falling to a dark pit that Harambee also feels when he tries to figure the meaning of the Circle of Life. He never gets an answer that satisfies the childish idealism of a thirteen-year-old. It is frustrating. He can't find it in him to reveal these despairs to Timira, though she sees, and she tries to console. She sees pretty much every —

"We should have died. This is wrong, Timi'. Wrong. Wrong. We should've died. We're not supposed to be _alive_. He should've never been _born_." This isn't the first time Chaka expressed regret about Harambee, and, in cynicism a cub isn't meant to comprehend, it probably won't be the last. The Great Spirit constructed the Circle of Life countless millennium ago … for His children to disrespect Him? Harambee doesn't think so. He doesn't want to believe so. It's his strong, unwavering belief in the Spirit that keeps him upright. Chaka, for all his love towards his son on a lax day, never fails to scoff at Harambee's 'silly notions.' _There's no grand plan in this universe, _Chaka says, as if imparting some wise nugget of advice upon Harambee, _and once you accept that, kid, you'll be better off._

Harambee may be a youth, but he bristles, all the same. Timira is convinced Harambee be free to worship what he will, but Chaka never backs down from his stance that their son is compromising his intelligence with foolishness. Meaningful talks with Chaka always derail … Harambee stopped bothering after awhile. Who cares. The essence of the Great Spirit calms his wracking nerves, especially in the aftermath of Chaka's episodes. How will Chaka react, he ponders, when it dawns on him it's his fault his cub subscribes to the religion Chaka hates?

_Daddy issues,_ Harambee murmurs wryly.

"What's that?" Timira pipes, quietly, so as not to awake Chaka. How long has it taken to coax her husband to rest? Far too long. Harambee snorts internally. Disgraceful. By sunrise, he'll have wiped the incident from his mind. Only in the bleakest hours is the resentment too much to swallow.

"Nothing, Mom. Just. Is he gonna be okay, tomorrow?" It's not a lie, because, in Harambee's opinion, there isn't anything amiss. He'll just spend a few extra minutes in the morn praying.

Timira quirks the sides of her mouth in what she thinks looks like a smile, "Of course! You know he's been getting better." _He has?_ Harambee smothers the surprise that shows itself a bit more clearly than he wants with a yawn. Timira coos a lullaby. Under closed eyelids, Harambee rolls his eyes. Seriously, he's thirteen. He should not be sung to dreamland. It works, anyhow.


	6. Inner

**_INNER._**

* * *

Nala stretches with mild difficulty. Her haunches are sore from Scruffy's assault. She has a cool persona as she eases off the drowsiness of sleep. Her mother may be gone, but, in her absence, her only daughter has gained the best mentor she could've ever asked for. Sarabi, the former Queen. Under her noble wing, Nala has bloomed into a grand lioness.

No measure of tutoring can extinguish the heart in Nala's chest. Inside, Nala is seething. She hates Zira. She hates Zira for siccing her lackeys on her when she least expected it. She hates Zira's lackeys for choosing to be nothing more than worthless, disposable followers, when she knew them in cubhood, and had to sit there and watch as they destroyed their own potential. She hates Scar, for ruining them. She hates _Scar's _lackeys, those carrion dogs, those damning, damnable carrion dogs. She hates many, many things, and her anger is eternal.

Scar, the lazy bastard, never carries out his Kingly duties. He never gives orders unless it's to find more food. The lion has always been thin, but, Nala is convinced that if it weren't for the hyenas' greed, the so-called King would've been made morbidly obese in a matter of months with the way he whines and whines for meals. The fool. The idiot. The old son-of-a-bitch. He doesn't realize, or perhaps doesn't accept, that his growling, empty stomach is his own fault.

So, Nala rests, displaying no reaction to the way her skin burns and aches. The cold stone she lay upon is a mere one of the numerous large rocks outlying the boundaries of Priderock itself. Scattered, tossed about, Nala knows the feeling well. It may seem silly, to relate to a rock, but, right now, in the aftermath of an ambush, her mind itself might be a tad scattered …

She daydreams about Scar's impending murder. Because he is going to die. She'll make certain of it.


	7. For Better, Or for Worse?

**_FOR BETTER, OR FOR _****_WORSE?_**

* * *

_Inspired by ~Akril15's fanart piece, "Kopa's mane," on deviantART._

* * *

Kopa hates everything right now.

And, he's pretty sure everyone hates _him_.

The hurt and confusion festers. He trembles with the force of his rage and fierce denial. This is all come so suddenly, it's akin to having the wind knocked out of him by a rampaging rhinoceros, caught in its path in such a manner which was never meant to occur. Never. It has only taken a single, insignificant little change to turn Kopa's whole entire world on its head.

Perhaps, if he was younger, it wouldn't have been so terrible. He could have adapted to a new life, a new pride, anything; versatility is a universal cub trait. But, this … this … this is unforgivable. How could they? How can they?

A two-toned mane is an occasional phenomena among lions. It has a spotted history, ranging anywhere from blessings, evil omens, to nothing at all : the sensible idea.

The past is an ignoble place, they do things differently there. This is the present. No one ever thinks anything of it. It's a natural thing. It's ridiculous. It's just a mane of two colors. Random chance. Who cares?

Apparently, after centuries of rationality and common sense, it has become a huge deal once again. And, apparently, Kopa's family is made up of fools, of superstitious idiots, and – why are they _doing_ this to him?!

It used to be a joke. Kopa wasn't glanced at twice. His tailtuft was a lighter shade of brown than the considerable manetuft sprouting on his cranium. What no lion, nor lioness took into evaluation, is that, sometimes, hair matures into a darker hue as one ages, for no real reason other than it just _does_.

After the travesty that collectively was Scar, _nobody_, especially the elder leonines whom have lived through that horrible period and survived to tell the tale, have particular fondness for those of shady coloration. It looks sinister. It's intimidating. It brings memories to the surface which must rather be forgotten, permanently. Kopa always wondered about that … if you forget the past, won't it repeat itself, eventually? They'll create any excuse. At least, Kopa doesn't have green eyes. He'd be _condemned_.

His parents have hidden this from him for years. He was fifteen when the black undertones of his mane became obvious. He was sixteen when it became too obvious to ignore. To think, his father approached him, one morning, set to deliver a fatherly, empowering speech to his son why a thin strip of black wasn't an issue – and then cut himself off and gaped when he saw, finally _saw_, up close, that it was far, far more than a thin strip. "My spirit," Simba gasped, "it's _spread_."

The blackness is reaching deeper areas now, but not in the sense Kopa has a feeling the King meant at the time. The ever-distinct brown tuft still exists, but that's where the brown ends. The majority is black, blackest black, like a mark of evil weaving around his neck and betwixt his ears.

His grandmother will not meet his eye, won't dare, with the images of Scar's atrocities flaring to life in her mind. He'd feel sorry for her if she didn't decide to be so _stupid_. He is her _grandson_. They've spent so much time, together. She should _know better_.

Prince Kopa, quickly transforming into something less than a Prince, son of Royal King and Queen Simba and Nala, is being asked to leave.

They're asking him to leave.

It's a feeble coat of sugar.

_You're exiled. I'm sorry, son. We just can't stand to be in your presence. You have to go. Now._

Nala is stone-faced.

Kopa nearly convinces himself that he is, in fact, in a nightmare, a night-terror, and that none of this is actually happening, not a drop of it. She has _never_ given him this – expression, the expression she reserves for the murderers, the rapists, the vile and unwanted. He's done nothing to deserve this treatment. It's absurd, subjected to her scorn, he is a pathetic example of a lion, a wretch, and he is _not_. He _knows_ he is not. However, Nala is legendary, famous for twisting words and thoughts and placing entirely new ones into the mouths of commoner and royalty alike. The Pridelands has benefited greatly due to her rule.

Kopa laments that he does not seem to have inherited her fiery wit, for he is hapless as its victim.

The frighteningly fast three years since his sixteenth birthday, she has hounded him, unrelentingly. Kopa despaired, more than just once, what had he committed which was so wrong? What was it she so could see within him that was so unsatisfactory, as – as a _person_? A cat, no alternate than she, herself? His eyes tear. His blood thunders in his ears –

He's tackled to the cold stone floor, cruelly and without pretense.

"Crocodile tears!" screams Nala.

Simba yanks her back, "Nala, please! Can't you just let him go? I mean, I don't want him here any more than you do, either, but, he _was_ our son, once, and –"

Kopa sobs, reduced to absolutely nothing.

It's a violent sob, and it heaves his chest with everything he has. He sounds so similar to his old, eight-year-old self, everyone stops and stares at him, for the briefest second witnessing the true terrorized, tortured boy beneath the shadowy mane. Kopa does not make another noise, and the sensation subsides.

The trained lioness guards holding him, pressed against the ground, like a petty thief in lawful banishment, flex their grip threateningly.

Kopa is nineteen.

* * *

Asante is seventeen. Shenzi is her mother, the Matriarch of the Clan. They barely manage to scrape by most days, but, darn, are they proud of who they are, and, in a roundabout way, how they live. Her father is Banzai. Her uncle, the disabled, but kind Ed. Hyenas, kind? Sure! Just don't try to tell them that …

Which is what Asante tried to do.

Shenzi is despondent, unknowing of how to deal with her daughter, her daughter with too much heart than can be allowed in a lifestyle like theirs.

"You have to go, Asante. Somewhere else," she sighs. "Maybe, you can find a better life. Make a new, a _better_, Clan. In a prosperous land." Shenzi's gaze drifts off, in tandem with her voice. "You can't be the hyena you are, here. I don't want that for you. I love you, and I want you to be happy."

It's painful, but Asante understands.

She departs.

"Why did you do that?" Banzai demands, in tears, "What'ch'you make her leave, for? She could'a learnt – !"

Shenzi snarls at her mate, "No, Banzai! She couldn't have! You know that! Look what happened to Ed!" Ed, poorest Edari, bullied for his beautiful heart, pushed down a cliff and cracked his head to the point of no return, and Banzai hiccups at the truth, the hard truth. They comfort each other, for a little too long than is believed socially acceptable for a hyena pair.

Asante doesn't know it, yet, but in her travels, she is going to meet a strange young lion, a lion who will change her life, and the future of the African Sahara.


End file.
